


Indecent

by cagestark



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Leather Wearing Tony, M/M, Motorcycles, Mutual Masturbation, Peter is 22, Peter is a Little Shit, Tony is guilty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 11:47:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19991653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cagestark/pseuds/cagestark
Summary: Tony gives Peter his first ride on a motorcycle.





	Indecent

“I’m not sure about this,” Peter says. Clutched in his hands is a motorcycle helmet, a great black glossy thing with a tinted visor that he knows gives no impression of the features that might be lurking underneath. He’s seen—okay, _admired_ —it enough on Tony. Part of him laments it when Tony comes ripping up to the curb of Peter’s apartment to visit him, because it should be a fucking crime to hide a face like Tony Stark’s. Another part of him doesn’t mind because it totally looks cool. “It’s only two miles back to the bus station. I really don’t mind the walk.”

He really doesn’t mind. What he _would_ mind is looking like an anxious, fearful kid in front of this man. 

Tony is rifling through the inner pockets of his leather jacket. He’s smoking, a cigarette pressed between his lips. He insists on standing an insulting distance away, _downwind_ , so as to keep his second-hand smoke away. Peter doesn’t usually make a habit of being jealous of inanimate options, but it’s a common occurrence when Tony purses his full mouth around the filter and sucks so indecently, when he sips from a glass of whiskey and holds the alcohol in his mouth, eyes tight shut like in the most painful ecstasy before swallowing. Peter can’t help having an oral fixation. Nor a Tony fixation. At last Tony tugs free a pair of aviator sunglasses which balance so nicely on the bridge of his nose. It’s a little unsettling though, not seeing his eyes, knowing that he could be looking at Peter and he’d never know—then again, in what world would Tony Stark ever be looking at Peter. “A no is a no, kid. If you don’t want to ride—then I don’t want you to ride.”

“I didn’t say that—that I didn’t want to,” Peter says, voice a few octaves higher than he’d like it to be. He swallows but his throat is parched and his mouth no better. “I just. Well. You know. I’ve never ridden before—a motorcycle! I’ve never written a motorcycle.”

Tony’s lips twitch around his cigarette, but he masks it by reaching up to steady the smoke while he takes a drag. Like to balance Peter’s sudden plunge back six years to puberty, Tony’s voice is just a little deeper when he says: “I can guess it’s your first time, kid. Not to toot my own horn (though it’s a hell of a horn to toot), who better to have your first time with? You know. _On a motorcycle_.”

Peter can feel his face burning. He must be so red that there’s no way Tony could miss it. He can’t help having overactive capillaries. He also can’t help but feel like they’re having two different conversations. They’ve been flirting like this for months, ever since Peter graduated MIT and came back to New York to work under one of the R&D labs at Stark Industries. It’s no secret that Tony is a notorious flirt, and Peter has always contented himself with the fact that if Tony makes too many double _entendre’s,_ it’s just part of the older man’s nature. He’s never made any other move—not even a _hint_ at a move. Never a hand on his back, never standing so close as to let his breath brush Peter’s neck. If anything, Peter once saw him circumnavigate the entire lab to avoid brushing against the young man’s back by squeezing through the narrow space between Peter and a nearby lab table.

Tony isn’t interested. Period.

He shoves the helmet down over his head, taking in the cool, dark tint of the world around him. His curls are plastered to his forehead, but he sees the appeal—at least Tony can’t see his burning face. “How do I look?”

Tony snorts, but he’s smiling. “Like a bowling ball balanced on a toothpick.”

Peter wrenches the helmet off. So much for that. He holds it out. “It’s yours anyway—I can’t take it from you. Headgear is important.”

“Yeah, it is. Which is why you’re going to wear it.”

“No— _no_.”

“No exceptions. No helmet, no ride, kid. Those are the breaks.”

Peter balances the helmet on the seat of the Harley. “Well, then, I better get walking. It’s supposed to get dark soon—”

Though he can’t see it, he has the distinct impression that Tony is rolling his eyes. “I see what you’re doing Pete—”

“—and I hate to be out after dark, you know, it’s not safe—”

“—don’t even joke about that—”

“Joking? Who’s joking? Look at me, I’m walking away! See you on Monday, Tony—”

Now Tony looks angry, brows low and disappearing behind the mirrored shades. He takes the cigarette out of his mouth and points it at the helmet. “Peter, Jesus fucking Christ, put it on so we can get moving.”

Peter spreads his arms, walking backwards so as to keep Tony in his vision. “I’m twenty-two, an adult perfectly capable of— _fuck_!”

His ankle rolls under him and he crumples, twisting so as to land on his palms and knees instead of his tailbone. Pain makes his whole foot throb in time to his heartbeat, and his hands are scraped and blood when he shifts to sit in the gravel. His eyes sting with pain and embarrassment, and then Tony is there, warm hands engulfing Peter’s, and wow, they are so much larger than his, so much more weathered and calloused, and also _ow_.

“Damn it, Pete,” Tony mutters. His cigarette is gone, smoldering from where he dropped it when he saw Peter go down. “What hurts, kid?”

“It’s my ankle. I sprained it once as a kid and it’s never been the same.”

Tony’s hands take Peter’s foot, as delicately as if he were Cinderella about to try on the glass slipper. The heat of his skin burns through denim and cotton, right down to Peter’s feverish skin. Very carefully, he twists Peter’s foot this way and that, frowning when he winces. “Probably just sprained it again, but I’m taking you back to the Tower to have it looked at. Can I carry you?”

“Huh?” Peter feels dazed, squinting up at Tony crouched over him as if he was squinting up at the sun.

“To the bike, kid. Can I carry you?”

That’s how he kneels in the gravel, getting dust on jeans that probably cost a month’s worth of his housing allowance back at MIT. Tony slips one arm under Peter’s bent knees and the other around his back, scooping him up—not without a wince himself and the distinct sound of joints popping like popcorn.

“You’re too old to carry me like this,” Peter says, embarrassed.

“Spending so much time with you has aged me prematurely,” snarks Tony.

Peter’s nerves alight as Tony guides him onto the motorcycle. He knows next to nothing about bikes—just how it looks, how it makes him feel. It’s a comfortable-sized V-2 engine, black and shining chrome. There’s no real seat for a passenger, not like on some of the bigger bikes he’s seen in the city. Instead, he’ll have to plaster himself to Tony, practically wrap his legs around him.

“Jesus,” he mutters, already feeling like he needs to adjust himself in his jeans.

Tony frowns, mistaking his oath for pain. Mercifully, he secures the helmet to the side of the bike. Peter doesn’t think his fragile, fragile ego could handle any more blows. “Don’t worry Pete. We’ll have you to the Tower before you can blink. Just hold on tight, okay? And lean into the turns.”

Tony mounts the bike, shifting back until Peter’s thighs are flush against Tony’s sides. Reflexively, he squeezes, legs clenching together. Tony’s boot slips in the gravel, twisting to get better traction. Face red, Peter forces himself to relax. It just feels—different. Having a person between his thighs like this. Sure, he’s not a complete virgin (he’s done plenty of _stuff_ at MIT, thanks very much), but it isn’t as if he’s swimming in willing partners. And none of them could ever compare to Tony Stark.

Clearing his throat, Tony reaches back for one of Peter’s arms to curl it around himself. “Sorry, kid. But you have to hold on to me.”

“It’s—okay,” Peter says. He doesn’t know how to say that it’s very, _very_ fucking okay. That this is the closest he’s ever been to Tony, close enough to smell the scent of leather and expensive cologne and cigarette smoke, close enough that when he lets his head lean forward, it rests against the nape of Tony’s neck, hairs tickling at his nose.

The bike comes to life and it _vibrates_. Peter tries to scoot his hips back, groaning, hoping that the sound is lost in the roar of the engine. He’s more than half hard now, arms wrapped around Tony’s trim waist. Tony shifts back further, bringing them flush against each other again, and when his erection presses into the older man’s back, Peter ends up whining into his neck. God, he hopes that the older man can’t feel it through his jacket and shirt—

“You hurting that bad, Pete?” Tony turns his head to ask.

Peter shrugs. Sure. His blue balls hurt, at least, the throbbing in his cock taking the notice away from the throbbing in his ankle. Because he loves the pain, he lets one of his hands slip between Tony’s open jacket until it’s flat against his thin t-shirt. The fabric does nothing to disguise the burning heat of Tony’s skin just beneath, the hard cut of his abdominals. The muscles underneath his hand jump and twitch, maybe just because they’re moving now, gravel flying under the wheels until they turn onto the asphalt road.

They were close before, but now momentum presses Tony back into the cradle of Peter’s hips and there’s nowhere Peter can go, nothing he can do but take it. Wind makes him tuck his head into Tony’s shoulders and he doesn’t even try to check his impulses, inhaling like a man coming up from water desperate for breath. One of Tony’s hands comes down to press against the outside of Peter’s knee, squeezing maybe to offer comfort though it makes the younger man decidedly more uncomfortable. He can’t feel his ankle anymore, can barely feel any of his limbs, all of his awareness centered on the hot hand burning through his jeans, his aching erection, the smell of Tony.

Peter can’t take it—his cock is downright painful—and he begrudgingly separates one hand from around Tony’s waist to palm at it, knuckles just brushing the back of Tony’s jacket. The pressure helps as much as it hurts, but then Tony’s hand has drifted back and up further from its place on Peter’s knee until he’s pressing against his thigh.

“I said hold on to me, kid,” Tony says, voice nearly eaten up by the wind.

Peter’s face burns as he puts his arm back. He refuses to rut against Tony, just digging his fingertips into the older man’s abs and pressing his forehead against the ridge of his spine.

That’s when it happens—when he realizes he’s _on a motorcycle_. They’re going at a speed that seems dangerous through the thick forest, trees blurring as Tony rides like the devil is chasing them. The road has only been curvy until now, but the steepest curve approaches and he can’t remember what Tony said—lean _into_ it? Or _against_ it? His heart is in his throat, arousal and ankle forgotten. He’s going to get them killed, he’s got to say something—

Pressing himself flat against Tony, chest to back, his hands scramble against the older man’s jacket, trying to convey his panic and fear, and one of his hands slips too low where it brushes against a noticeable bulge. The man flinches. Peter’s breath catches. Tony is _hard_.

_Tony is hard._

They take the turn. Peter leans in on instinct, following Tony’s lead. His eyes are open and burned by the wind but he barely notices. Swallowing, he lets his hand drift down again, adjusting to make it appear as if it was on accident and _yes_ , that’s definitely a hard on, solid and straining against the jeans. The motorcycle swerves even as Peter’s hand jumps away to press flat against Tony’s abs again. Tony’s hand is back on Peter’s leg, palm against his outer thigh, fingers curling. Peter thought maybe he was gripping so tightly in a warning— _don’t touch me_ —but the grip doesn’t lessen, and he wonders—

He slides his hand down, purposefully, palm dragging over cotton and denim to palm Tony’s erection. Fingers flex on his thigh, and Tony’s head tilts back ever so slightly, like it can’t help but loll. Peter does his best to curl his fingers around the thick cock, feeling it as best as he can through the jeans, thumb running along it to find the arch of the head—

Tony swerves. His hand comes off of Peter’s thigh and then they are turning off of the asphalt road and onto another gravel path, the road rougher and making Peter’s balls ache where they’re underneath him. It only takes a few hundred feet for the trees to mask the sight of them from the main road. Tony is off the bike in an instant, stumbling as if drunk towards the woods.

Peter sits balanced on the bike, breathing heavily. His ears still ring from the roar of the bike even though it is quiet now. The noise is loud though as Tony goes off the gravel road and into the brush, twigs cracking until he stops, partially obscured by the trees.

“Tony?” Peter asks. His throat is dry, erection flagging. What’s going on—is Tony going to be sick? He steps off of the motorcycle, careful not to topple it over. He squints, trying to get a better glimpse of the older man. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Tony groans. “Give me a minute. Stay on the bike, okay?”

Peter swallows. He takes a few careful steps (ankle aching now) and has a better view. Tony has one arm braced against the rough bark of a tree, and the other—

“ _Jesus_ ,” Peter mutters under his breath.

Tony is jerking off. With his back turned, Peter doesn’t have the best view, but there’s no mistaking the stance, legs spread, the leather clad arm that is moving rhythmically, stripping his cock with a steady, slow rhythm. The only sound are ambient noises—birds in the distance, crickets coming out for the evening—and Tony’s harsh breaths puffing out through his nose. His head tilts back just like it did on the bike when Peter palmed him, and Peter gets a glimpse of his eyes squeezed shut, the side of his jaw, mouth open—

Peter palms at his own cock still in his jeans. He’s harder than he’s ever been, feeling like he could blow with just the gentle pressure of his hand. If Tony turned just a little, just enough to give Peter a glimpse of the older man’s cock, he’d be done with for sure. He shifts.

A stick cracks under his feet.

Tony’s head snaps around, eyes wide and wild. He rakes them over Peter still on the gravel road, and Peter can’t imagine how he looks, obscenely hard in his jeans, hand doing his best to jerk himself off through the denim. The horror of being caught evaporates from Tony’s face and Peter can tell that its arousal that’s left in its wake. The groan Tony gives reminds him of the purr of the bike between his thighs and a sound slips free from the back of his throat, too close to a whimper for his face to not burn at the indignity of it.

“Christ,” Tony mutters. He turns—no use hiding now—to press his back flush against the tree. “What’s with you and not listening to me today, Pete?”

Tony’s pants have been hastily undone, and his cock pulled free. It’s thick and long, flush in the dim lighting through the thick canopy of trees overhead. Tony’s hand continues its motion and Peter is enamored with the way the head disappears and reappears through the circle of Tony’s hand. His mouth waters, jaw aching.

“God, Tony, _please_ —” Peter gasps. “—please let me have it. _God_ , please—”

He groans again, the arm not jerking his cock comes up to press over his eyes. “Jesus Peter, don’t _say_ that—”

“Why not? Is it—not for me?”

Tony snorts, still not looking. His hips cock upwards, fucking into his own fist. “Pretty sure you’re singlehandedly the cause of all of my erections for the last nine months, Pete.”

Peter swallows. If he doesn’t, he might drool. “Then that’s _mine_. I should be able to have it, if its mine.”

Tony shakes his head. When his arm moves, his face is twisted in pain, pleasure, guilt, desire. His voice is ragged, destroyed, when he says, “No.”

“But—”

“No means _no_.”

And Peter can’t argue with that. Whatever is holding Tony back—Peter has to respect it. Even if it’s hurting them both. Peter stops touching himself, determined not to miss a single moment of what he’s seeing. He nods, and Tony closes his eyes in thanks, letting his head loll back against the tree even as his hand speeds up on his cock, legs shifting a hairsbreadth wider.

“I still want it,” Peter says. His voice is low enough to almost be carried away by the nature around them, but he knows by the way Tony’s throat bobs as he swallows that the man heard him. Face burning, he can’t stop, the words cathartic. “When you’re ready—if you’re ever ready. Please let me, Tony. I want to— _God_ —I want to suck you off, want to touch you and smell you and taste you. If I have one more dream about riding you, I think I might go _crazy_.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” mutters Tony. His mouth opens, and he gives a handful more brutal thrusts into his fist, knuckles nearly white with how tightly he’s gripping himself, before he lets go, cum bursting from the head of his cock onto the ground and over his fingers. The relieved noises he makes are almost enough to make Peter’s eyes drift close, balls drawing up tight. Thankfully, he doesn’t come untouched.

It takes an entire minute for Tony’s breathing to slow to something resembling normal. Inside his jacket is a handkerchief—honest to God, Peter didn’t even think people under 60 carried those anymore—and he wipes his hand on it. Peter tries not to whine, salivating at the waste. Tony tucks himself back into his pants and carefully makes his way out of the brush and back onto the gravel road.

The older man clears his throat, hand replacing the sunglasses from where he pushed them up to his hair. “We should—should probably get you to that doctor. Maybe now I can drive without getting us fucking killed.”

“Yeah,” Peter laughs weakly. They’re close enough that Peter imagines he can smell the musty scent of cum, and it revives the ache in his cock with a passion until he’s the one groaning. He’s pressing his hand against himself, he realizes, but it’s barely helping. And Tony is _watching_ him. “Tony—” he gasps. Swallows. Tries again. Reaches for Tony’s hand, the one that was just covered in cum. “Would you— _please_.”

Tony breathes deeply, steps closer, until their breaths are mingling together. Tony’s hand is warm when Peter takes it, warm and still a little damp. Keening, Peter presses it to his mouth, licks a hot stripe across the palm. The flavor bursts across his tongue—salty, a little bitter.

“Jesus, kid,” Tony says. His fingers flex under Peter’s tongue. He closes his eyes. “Do what you’ve got to, Pete.”

Peter takes Tony’s hand and presses the palm flat to his throbbing cock. The pressure is incredible. The fact that it’s Tony is _incredible_. It comes over him quick, balls drawing up so tightly its painful, and he grinds into the palm as he comes almost immediately, pressing his lips closed so as to not whine out loud. His cock jerks a handful of times, orgasm pulled from the pit of his gut in the most agonizingly pleasurable way. It feels like it lasts forever and is over in a blink. Tony’s fingers twitch, thumb rubbing against the head of Peter’s denim clad cock, making him groan. A few more moments of _that_ and he’s nearly positive he could get hard again.

Tony presses a kiss to the crown of Peter’s head. “I’m sorry,” he whispers into the younger man’s hair.

Peter laughs softly, resting his forehead against Tony’s collarbones. “ _I’m_ not.”


End file.
